[Reckless Surrender is book two in the Made for Love series but can be read as a STAND ALONE novel. Written for audiences 18+ years of age.]

Three and a half years ago, Daphne walked into my shop, kicked open the door to my soul, invited herself inside, and got comfortable. By the time I realized she’d made herself at home, it was too late to kick her out. Now, I’m in love with her. But I’m not her boyfriend. She’s not my lover. We’re just friends…Trevor’s it for me. I love him so much it drives me crazy. But we’re broken—two battered people whose souls have been ravaged by the world. We decided a long time ago that we wanted to love each other but not attempt to fix one another. Instead, we give each other as much as we can. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s ever going to be enough…

I twist my bangs back away from my face and pin them in place before washing off today’s makeup. I feel completely plain without it, but it’s also refreshing to be rinsed clean and I know present company doesn’t mind. Speaking of which, I’m glad I get to keep him for the night. I love it when that happens. We don’t exactly make a habit of it, but I always sleep better cocooned in his arms. It makes me feel like I’m his. I guess in some ways I am, even though I’m not. I certainly don’t belong to anyone else. I can’t imagine ever being with anyone else—even if being with Trevor without actually being with Trevor one day breaks my heart.

I shake the thought away, aware that I’m starting to think too much. He’s here, now, and that’s what he can give me. Besides that, it’s more than anyone else gets. This is how it is between us. It works.

I stop just inside the doorway of my bedroom, caught off guard by what awaits. Or should I say, who? I have to stifle a small gasp at the sight of him—not because I’m startled by his change in appearance, but because he leaves me breathless. He’s so damn mesmerizing I can’t help but stare. Every. Time.

At this point, I think it’s safe to assume I’ll never get used to the masterpiece that he is, and that’s more than fine.

It’s quite apparent that he has endured the confines of his dress attire for as long as he can stand it. I can’t mourn the lost image of him all spruced up, not when I have the image of him all stripped down to admire. All he has on is a pair of gym shorts. He keeps a pair stowed away in my dresser for nights like these. He’s sitting at the window, which he has opened, with one leg straddling the bench and the other bent in front of him so that he might rest his beer atop his knee.

Trevor isn’t built like an athlete. He isn’t bulky with muscle. He isn’t lanky, like me, either. He’s made up of lean, toned lines that whisper of the physical power that makes him all man. But his inner strength? All the vulnerable and fragile pieces of him that make him so strong, the pieces of him that I love so much, that’s what catches my eye.

He wears his heart on his sleeve. Literally. The world might not know it, but I do. I know that every inch of ink that covers his beautiful skin tells his story. The tattoo on his left arm stretches from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder and spills over his heart. I can’t see it now, because of the way he’s sitting, but I know he’s got script tattooed down his left side across his ribs. Finally, his right arm is adorned in a half sleeve. I say finally not as a way to express finality, but simply the end of his list for now. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn that he’s dreaming of more.

“Daph! Your beer’s getting warm!” he yells, his gaze still directed out the window.

I grin, partly because I love how he knows I hate it when my beer gets even the slightest bit warm; partly because he hasn’t noticed me standing here staring at him. “I’m right here,” I say as I continue to make my way into the room. I speak softly, but I startle him just the same.

“Shit, Wings—” he mutters, spitting out his nickname for me as he jumps. He has to snatch up his beer as his leg shoots out in front of him. I laugh and grab my half empty bottle from off of the edge of the bookshelf where he’s lined up our reserve. “How long were you standing there?”

“Sure,” he murmurs, shaking his head at me in disbelief. I smirk in response.

Now this is one of those moments where, if we were in a movie or a romance novel, he’d crawl across the bench and kiss me. But this isn’t a fairy tale and he won’t kiss me because I won’t let him. We can’t go there. What he and I share, it works because we don’t go there. As crazy as it might sound, our restraint excites me. Simply knowing that he feels it, too, makes this moment more intimate than not.

He brings his beer up to his lips and tilts his head back as he empties the remaining contents into his mouth. As he sucks out every last drop, he watches me watch him and I get lost in his oval eyes. His irises are in a glorious state of confusion, unsure of whether or not they are blue or green. His hair struggles with the same color dilemma, his dark blonde locks sometimes appearing light brown, depending on how the light hits them.

For just a second, I imagine running my fingers through his soft, loose, curls. Or, at least, I consider them curls; or they would be—big, beautiful, silky curls—if he grew his hair out longer. I know he won’t. He likes to keep his slightly shaggy, fuck-me-now mane just long enough to entice you to do just that. Except, we won’t be doing that, either.

His gaze is still locked with mine. He’s teasing me. I know it. He knows it—but this is our game. I can’t look away first. If I do, he’s won. So instead, I bring my beer to my lips, tilt my head back, and drink, all the while watching him watch me.

When we’re both finished, he stands and takes my empty bottle before leaning down to kiss my neck, just below my ear. “You win, Wings,” he murmurs. I grin, feeling victorious. “But you left the bottle opener in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” He kisses me once more as a reward and then turns to leave.

Author Bio

R.C. Martin finds it a bit awkward referring to herself in the third person, so she’s only going to do it for this one sentence. (We all know who’s writing this bio anyway!)

I’m a born and bred Coloradan. I will always claim that square state as my home! While I now reside in Virginia, the land of the Rocky Mountains is where I’ve left a piece of my heart and where my characters come to life. I’m a woman in love with love and filled to the brim with compassion for women like me, on a journey to find themselves in today’s society. I aspire to inspire my readers to do more than settle. I hope that my writing will remind everyone that she (or he!) is valuable and worthy of the best kind of love–the kind that is gentle, patient, faithful, passionate, all consuming, never ending, and leaves you breathless.

When I’m not writing I’m reading; when I’m not reading I’m writing…you know how it goes! I also enjoy cooking, baking, crocheting, and jigsaw puzzles. Basically, I’m an old soul with a young heart, nonchalantly waiting for my prince to come.

Caleb and Gianna aren’t supposed to fall in love. Getting along for their parents’ sakes is almost impossible already. Gianna can’t stand the bad boy image Caleb portrays and he thinks she’s a hollow beauty.At first, denying their mutual attraction is easy enough. But as the stepbrother and stepsister get to know each other, friendship blossoms and feelings emerge they aren’t prepared for.

From enemies to friends to lovers sounds like a modern-day fairytale. Unfortunately, their love is forbidden and a wicked stepmother will do anything to keep them apart. Monsters and creatures in the forms of Gianna’s ex-boyfriend and Caleb’s past conquests attack from all sides.

The road to happily ever after isn’t paved in gold and there are many obstacles to overcome, but a bad boy becomes a Prince Charming and a Sleeping Beauty awakens.

WARNING: This YA Contemporary Romance series contains Mature themes and is not suitable for younger readers.

April Brookshire is the author of the Beware of Bad Boy and Young Assassins series. She also co-authors the Dead Chaos series. She writes under the contemporary romance and apocalyptic fantasy genres and has a few projects in the works for 2015/2016.

Growing up with four brothers, she doesn’t like most chick flicks but devours romance books of all genres. A book addict, she’s read almost two thousand books to date.

April lives in a suburb of Denver, Colorado, where she raises her young son. When she isn’t writing, she’s usually reading, but also enjoys attending concerts and plays in the numerous venues of the city.

I understand why I have the nickname. Hey, what can I say? I like women. All women. It doesn’t matter what shape, size, or color. I’m even into sharing. I’ve done it all, seen it all, but I’m at an all-time low. Who wouldn’t be? My best friend is missing. My uncle’s an asshole. I don’t know who I am without The Nights. We are a band of brothers, soldiering through the world with our music. Only, our faithful leader is gone, and everyone else in the band is falling for the oldest trap: love. Love is a lie. It is painful. It is hurtful.

I need a break. I want to be alone. I’m not prepared to share the exclusive home on the Island. I’m not prepared for her. I don’t know who she is or why she’s here. She tells me to call her Ireland. I tell her my first name only. Originally, I don’t want to believe she doesn’t recognize me. Bass guitarist for The Nights, come on? After a while we both play the game. Secrets are another form of lies, aren’t they?

Our fantasy will crash to reality too soon. Secrets catch up to you. The truth has to be told. It confirms what I already know: love is a lie.

With her hand on her chest and her breasts rising and falling in great agitation, I
was able to see her big blue eyes and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
Her chin length blonde hair fell forward as she bent to clasp her knees and
catch her breath.

Standing up almost as quickly as she bent over, she spoke to me through delicious
looking pink lips.

“Who the fuck are you?” she growled.

“Who the fuck, are you?” I returned.

“I’m…”

“You know what, never mind. You need to go,” I said, cutting her off and reaching
for her upper arm again. “I don’t know how you got in here, where you came
from, or how you found me, but you need to go.”

I began to tug her toward the front entry, her feet sliding in her flip-flops
across the tile flooring. She pulled back, and the force made her skid on an
angle across the slippery surface as I dragged her. She continued to glare at
me quizzically, leaning away from me.

“I don’t know what you are talking about?”

“Did you follow me, is that it? See me in the airport?”

“What?”

“Okay, I love you too, now you need to go. Okay?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am?”

“I don’t.”

I stopped, still holding firmly to her arm. Something in her voice sounded like
she was being serious.

“I’m Tristan.”

She blinked, confusion clearly on her face. I was thoughtful for a moment. It was
the innocence in her blue eyes, and the fact she looked like she might cry.
Something wasn’t right with this scenario.

“Trist – an,” I said slowly, as if she had some type of hearing impairment.

“Who?”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“What kind of music do you listen to?”

“Country,” she answered so quickly, she didn’t even blink an eye or stop for thought. On
top of that, she said it in such a way that showed she was thoroughly confused,
and almost disgusted with me, for even asking such a ridiculous question. She wrinkled
her nose.

“Look, I know the owner, and you shouldn’t be here.”

“I know the owner,” I repeated, “and you shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m not leaving,” she said, pulling at her own arm again and sticking out a hand to
press against my chest as leverage. I had tugged my shirt off at some point
while I was passed out, and her warm hand felt good on my air-conditioned cool
skin. Her hand was tiny, I noticed. All of her was thin.

“I’m supposed to be here. Alone,” I emphasized again.

She didn’t respond, so I added, “I think I’ll just call the owner myself, to see
where the mix up is.”

“No,” she blurted, stopping in her physical struggle against me. Her eyes opened even
wider, if that was possible, and her face was suddenly full of something I
couldn’t read. Her blue eyes brightened in a frightening sort of way. Was that
fear? Good, she should be afraid.

“Please.
I swear. I’m allowed to be here. You don’t need to call Isa.”

She had me. I didn’t really know who Isa was, and the girl sounded confident enough
that I let her call my bluff.

“If there is a mistake, and you were scheduled to stay as well, I won’t complain.
As a matter of fact, I won’t even be in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.
I plan to keep to myself.” Her eyes were glassy, and again I worried she was about to cry.

I released her arm and she pulled it back quickly. She fisted the hand of that
arm, holding it against her chest. She began rubbing her upper arm with the
opposite hand. I noticed again that she was thin, as were her breasts. I didn’t
care for small chested girls. I didn’t care for her.

“Well, I’m Tristan, whom you claim to not know, and you are?”

“I’m…Ireland.”

“Ireland what?”

“Just…Ireland.”

I shook my head.

“So this is how we’re going to play it? Fine, my Irish Isle. What are you doing in
the Caymans?”

She looked at me for a moment, then leaned toward me and sniffed. She held the
disgusted expression on her face and wrinkled her nose as she pulled back.

L.B. Dunbar loves to read to the point it might be classified as an addiction. The past few years especially she has relished the many fabulous YA authors, the new genre of New Adult, traditional romances, and historical romances. A romantic at heart, she’s been accused of having an overactive imagination, as if that was a bad thing. Author of the Sensations Collection, Sound Advice, Taste Test, Fragrance Free, Touch Screen, and Sight Words, she is also author of the Legendary Rock Star series, beginning with The Legend of Arturo King. She grew up in Michigan, but has lived in Chicago for longer, calling it home with her husband and four children.

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I’d like to say I was always a writer. I’d also like to say that I wrote every day of my life since a child. That I took the teaching advice I give my former students because writing every day improves your writing. I’d like to say I have my ten-thousand hours that makes me a proficient writer. But I can’t say any of those things. I did dream of writing the “Great American Novel” until one day a friend said: Why does it have to be great? Why can’t it just be good and tell a story?

As a teenager, I wrote your typical love-angst poetry that did occasionally win me an award and honor me with addressing my senior high school class at our Baccalaureate Mass. I didn’t keep a journal because I was too afraid my mom would find it in the mattress where I kept my copy of Judy Blume’s Forever that I wasn’t allowed to read as a twelve year old.

I can say that books have been my life. I’m a reader. I loved to read the day I discovered “The Three Bears” as a first grader, and ever since then, the written word has been my friend. Books were an escape for me. An adventure to the unknown. A love affair I’d never know. I could be lost for hours in a book.

So why writing now? I had a story to tell. It haunted me from the moment I decided if I just wrote it down it would go away. But it didn’t. Three years after writing the first draft, a sign (yes, I believe in them) told me to fix up that draft and work the process to have it published. That’s what I did. But one story let to another, and another, and another. Then a new idea came into my head and a new storyline was created.

I was accused (that’s the correct word) of having an overactive imagination as a child, as if that was a bad thing. I’ve also been accused of having the personality of a Jack Russell terrier, full of energy, unable to relax, and always one step ahead. What can I say other than I have stories to tell and I think you’ll like them. If you don’t, that’s okay. We all have our book boyfriends. We all have our favorites. Whatever you do, though, take time for yourself and read a book.

Her passions in life include books and hockey
along with Victorian and Edwardian era photography and antique poison bottles.
Natalie contributes her uncharacteristic love of hockey to being born in
Russia.

She currently resides in the UK where she is
working on her next book and adding to her collection of 19th century
post-mortem photos.